Holiday Collection
by Facade
Summary: A collection of holiday challenge stories written by members of the Resident Evil Writers Group.
1. Celebrating You by Mayumi H

â€œCelebrating You"  
  
A Resident Evil Writers - Holiday Challenge story  
  
by Mayumi-H  
  
He moves between the table and the kitchen island, carrying plates and bowls of steaming food. He glances at his watch for the third time in as many minutes. Where is she?  
  
She's never been late before. He curses to himself, thinking that he should have offered to give her a ride. She would have refused, of course - she's like that: self-sufficient. But really, he knows, it's just pride. She doesn't want him to treat her differently just because she's a girl, just because he loves her.  
  
He looks at his watch again. Come on, what's taking so long?  
  
He puts his hands down on the table, his fingers running idly along the design of the tablecloth. He stares at the candles and the food, and he thinks of his mother rushing between the dinner table and the kitchen. For his mother, Thanksgiving was a chore, not a holiday. His father never made it any easier, either. There were always the expectations - though never spoken - of a dinner fit for kings. Despite how hard it was for his mother, though, she never complained; on the contrary, it always seemed to bring out her creative streak. He likes to think that he gets his aplomb under pressure from her.  
  
His eyes drift over the place settings and he swears. Forks! How could he forget forks?  
  
He rummages through the silverware drawer for a matching set of forks. He comes up with two not-quite-identical-but-only-he'll-know pieces, and he shrugs. Good enough, right? As he goes over to the table, he tries to remember...left side or right? She'll know (she always knows silly things like that), but he can't wait for her to tell him. He wants this to be perfect.  
  
He guesses left, and that looks all right to him. He sets the other fork in place on the table and smiles at his handiwork. Not bad, not bad. What else?  
  
"Candles," he says aloud and snaps his fingers. He checks his pockets for a lighter, can't find one. Matches, where the heck are the matches? He glances over his shoulder to the cupboard next to the oven, his eyes scanning the shelves. I know I just got some from Moriarty's... There, next to the coffee grinder!  
  
He strides over to the shelf, picks up the matches, and walks back to the table. On the way, he has to look at his watch again. Almost twenty minutes late... What if something happened to her? A gnawing feeling starts in his stomach. She could be hurt somewhere, in need of help, and he wouldn't even know it. Sure, she's a capable girl, but the city can be dangerous.  
  
He shakes his head and lights a match. No, she's stronger than that; she knows how to use a gun, and her fists, and how to run, if it comes to that. Men don't mess with her.  
  
His hand pauses right before the candle wick. Another gnawing feeling sets in. What if she decided not to come?  
  
He watches the flame without really seeing it, thinking that he'll probably shoot himself if she doesn't show up soon. This dinner is for them, this day is for them. What's the point of celebrating Thanksgiving without the one person he's thankful to have? He even went to the trouble of cooking a turkey dinner (well, not really - he had the restaurant on Eighth Street send a cooked dinner over...but he had heated it up in the oven - that should count for something).  
  
The flame touches his fingers and he yelps, dropping the match onto the tablecloth. He curses again and stamps it out with the palm of his hand.  
  
He puts the candle over the new mark in the cloth and lights the candle. Stop thinking stupid thoughts. She'll come. She's probably already on her way here. Please let her be on her way.  
  
He looks at his watch one more time - this is the last time, he promises himself; twenty-five minutes behind schedule. Okay, five more minutes...he'll give her five more minutes and then charge into the night like the Light Brigade.  
  
One minute passes, then a second, and he decides to forget about waiting for the other three. He goes to get his shoulder holster and gun, when there's a knock at the door. He rushes to it, yanking it open onto a beautiful girl.  
  
"Claire!" He cries, grabbing her and pulling her both into the apartment and into his arms. she smells like shampoo and soap, and just a hint of motor oil.  
  
She hugs him back, her grip strong. "Chris! Sorry I'm late...I ran into some traffic outside the city." She pulls away from him, holding him at arms' length. She smiles at him. "I hope you weren't worried."  
  
He cocks a grin at her. "Who, me? Never." He pulls her into an embrace again, grateful to have her here, grateful just to have her. This is his life, right here in his arms. "Never."  
  
  
  
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	2. Wasted Day by Bethan

"Wasted Day"  
  
A Resident Evil Writers - Holiday Challenge story  
  
by Bethan  
  
I haven't celebrated Christmas for five years. What's the point? I'm not a religious man, so it's just hypocrisy. Oh, they say, but Christmas is for family. I haven't got one. And I don't like turkey, I'm not much of a drinker, I have no one to exchange gifts with, and I'm practically drowning in work. Give me one good reason to celebrate this ridiculous, over- commercialised, pointless, cheap excuse for a holiday. Go on.  
  
Although I am in danger of sounding like a young version of Scrooge, to me Christmas is a complete and utter waste of a working day. With the company in the precarious position it is, it hardly seems right to give everyone the day off. We don't let them go home, of course, but they can stay in their bunks and have parties in the packing room and make a dreadful mess of everything. I wouldn't agree to it, but apparently some idiot put it in their contracts.  
  
And so it was that on December 25th I sat down to lunch, wondering if I had been stupid enough to give the staff the day off, too. I have to eat, you know.  
  
To my surprise, Harman doddered in, clutching a package under one arm and pushing the luncheon trolley.  
  
"Merry Christmas, Sir Alfred," he volunteered, smiling benevolently at me.  
  
I felt my stomach tighten involuntarily. I was sure I had told him not to talk about it. "I don't celebrate Christmas," I muttered, glaring fixedly at the table.  
  
"I know, Sir Alfred, I know. Not for five years. It's just. you've been awfully sad lately, and I thought this would cheer you up."  
  
I glanced at him, a sneer already halfway to my lips, and saw the fragile hope blooming on his face. The sneer faded. Sentimental old fool. He knows I hate Christmas, I always have done, even back when I had a family to celebrate it with.  
  
"Thank you," I said quietly. "That will be all."  
  
He hovered uncertainly by my side, torn with indecision. I pursed my lips, and did my best to ignore him. I didn't know what he was doing, or why he was dithering, and quite frankly I didn't want to. I just wanted my lunch.  
  
"Yes?" I asked eventually, unable to put up with his wavering any longer. Still he made no effort to speak. "What? Do you want to sing carols together? Put up all my Christmas cards? Or maybe," I continued, leaning forwards with an unpleasant grin, "maybe we can celebrate the good old days. You know, when the family went destitute, my mother ran away, and my father and sister died?"  
  
I regretted saying that afterwards, but it was fun at the time. He looked absolutely heartbroken.  
  
"I'm sorry sir. I meant well."  
  
"I'm sure you did," I conceded. "Just let me be, Harman. Any attempts to 'cheer me up', as you put it, will do no good whatsoever. I can guarantee it," I added.  
  
Still he looked crestfallen and uncertain, and it was putting me off the thought of my food. I glanced at my plate anyway, hoping that Harman hadn't decided to instill some of the Christmas spirit in me by sneaking some turkey or roast potatoes into my meal.  
  
"What on earth is the matter, Harman?" I exploded. "Is there," I began, realizing how little I actually knew about my butler, "some trouble at home?"  
  
He smiled softly, and shook his head. "Well, I'm not sure if this is appropriate now, seeing as you made your feelings so clear on the subject, but." he averted his gaze and handed me the package from under his arm.  
  
It was quite large and bulky, and felt like a book. I immediately felt embarrassed for my previous outburst.  
  
"I'm sorry, Harman. This time of year is hard for me," I said. Lies, lies, lies. The entire year is hard for me; Christmas is just a small despicable part of it. Still, it seemed to make him feel better.  
  
"I understand, sir. It's not much," he said, indicating the gift, "but I thought you might like it. Uh. I'll be going now. I'll come back and bring afternoon tea, if you like."  
  
"Yes, yes, that will be fine," I said flatly, turning the package over in my hands. I had the strangest feeling that I had forgotten something, and as I looked up into Harman's tired face I realised what it was. I hadn't thanked him for the gift.  
  
"Thank you," I said.  
  
He gave me a wavering smile and unloaded the last things from the trolley, before creeping out in silence. I watched him go, thoughtfully. 'Merry Christmas', indeed. Such a ridiculous clichÃ©. The idea that Christmas is a 'merry' time of year was outmoded and idiotic. Nobody even used the word merry anymore. And people only bought gifts so they would get something in return, and so people didn't sneer at them for being selfish. I tugged at the wrapping on my present idly, if only so I could tell Harman later that I liked it, whatever it would be.  
  
1 How I despised this day! If it were a normal, sensible day I would be going down to the lab to see how things were getting on, and then catching up on the paperwork in my office. Not sitting on my own in a terrible mood mortifying my servants and with nothing to do for the rest of the day but sit and sulk about the pointlessness of the world.  
  
Strange, I thought, removing the last of the wrapping paper and giving it a reproachful glance. It had robins on it. What they had to do with Christmas was a mystery to me. Something about having blood staining their feathers, which is imbecilic, as I'd like to see a bit of blood altering the genetic coding of an entire species.  
  
The present was. an album? I opened it gingerly, and was greeted with page after page of photographs. My mother and father and sister smiled at me (or at least eyed me coolly) from every page; in the library, in Antarctica. and there was my mother at graduation, and on her first day at work with my father. And there was me, in a few of them. I seemed cheerful, for whatever reason.  
  
It was touching, if not a little unnerving. My throat went dry, as the flood of memories stored carefully in some far off portion of my brain threatened to burst its banks and engulf me completely.  
  
There was a little note on the inside cover.  
  
Sir Alfred, this is just a little gift to let you know that you're not alone. With the greatest respect, Scott Harman.  
  
Hah! Of course I was alone, I had never been more so! I was alone and I would be forever, and I wouldn't be able to hold out much longer because all the pressures were piling up and up and I was beginning to forget. To forget. To forget who I was.  
  
Burning hot tears pricked at my eyes and I rubbed at them furiously with the sleeve of my jacket. How dare Harman send me this, something that told me the opposite of what he had hoped, that told me that I was alone, and would be left to fend for myself until I cracked completely.  
  
My vision blurred as tears started rolling freely down my face, with no regard to my anger or my feelings or the fact that I didn't want to show emotion in front of the staff - even though I was alone - or that I had a lot of work to do and I really had not got time for feelings, or emotions, or tears.  
  
And yet, despite my sadness and my fury, I was smiling.  
  
  
  
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	3. Looking In From the Outside by Facade

"Looking In From the Outside"  
  
A Resident Evil Writers - Holiday Challenge story  
  
By Façade  
  
He took a deep breath and held it, savoring the crisp freshness of the air. The cold air bit at his nose and throat but he reveled in the sensation. The breeze was scented with the essence of suburbia life. His senses singled them out for identification. The fresh, tangy scent of freshly mowed grass; the wet, earthy smell of the dew damp ground; an underlying odor of garbage waiting on the curb; a whiff of freshly brewed coffee; and, overlaying it all, the soft perfume of the lilac bush whose shadow concealed him. He blew his breath out reluctantly as his lungs began to protest and shifted his weight to the other foot.  
  
His eyes fell to his wrist and scanned the time quickly. Only a little longer. A crunch of gravel from behind startled him and he sidled deeper into the shadow, his breath hitching painfully in his chest. He held perfectly still, every muscle tensed for flight, fingers twitching at his side for a weapon that was not there. A cold sweat, stinking of fear, broke out across his forehead and his heart labored arduously in his chest. Over the blood rushing in his ears he heard an unmistakable snuffing at the fence near him and felt his legs weaken in relief. He grinned ruefully at his own foolishness and hissed softly, sending the stray mongrel fleeing down the alley.  
  
He listened long enough to ensure the dog far enough away before turning his attention back to the street he was observing. Neat middle class houses, rich green lawns, flowerbeds lovingly tended, and everything a man could want for a quiet life. He swallowed the bitterness stinging the back of his throat and reminded himself that none of this could be his. Umbrella had cut him off from this world in one fateful night.  
  
He squinted at the rising sun just peeking over the far roofs of houses and glanced back at his watch. Anytime now. He focused his blue eyes on the far window, waiting expectantly. As if on cue, a light clicked on, throwing a rosy glow on the blinds. He smiled slightly. Such punctuality still. He waited several breaths longer, watching hungrily for some sign of movement within before silently slipping along the fence.  
  
He rounded the corner cautiously and peered around him before hopping the short gate into the backyard. The gate rattled in its latch far too noisily to his ears and he crouched low, casting apprehensive glances about to see if he was discovered. There was no cry of detection and he sighed softly, brushing reddish-brown hair from his face. He crept along the wall until he was beneath the wide window, finding it open as he had predicted. He settled back on his heels in the grass and waited, eyes slowly scanning the yard. Memories of laughter floating on the night breezes and barbecues in the heat of summer drifted across his consciousness like falling leaves.  
  
The soft padding of feet on the linoleum followed by rushing water drew his attention back to the window. A clink of glass on metal and finally a hissing noise. A small smile quirked his lips again. Coffee pot. Another set shuffling set of footsteps, followed by muffled voices. One male and one female. A soft question with no answer. Silence stretched for several heartbeats and finally a sigh and retreating footsteps. Chair legs scraping across the floor and the rustle of a paper being unfolded. He listened attentively, savoring every whisper of noise. A moment later, maybe more for time had no meaning to him that day, footsteps returned. Another soft conversation. The voice cajoling and apologetic. The response forcefully cheerful.  
  
He frowned. Work? Today? Anger welled forth but he tamped it back. He vaguely heard the front door open and close and a car start in the driveway and pull away. The chair scrapes the floor again, followed by the clink of a cup set in the sink. He pulled away from the window discreetly and slipped away over the gate and to his waiting car down the street.  
  
An hour later his fingers drummed idly on the steering wheel but he refused to leave. He whistled cheerlessly to himself and slumped farther into the seat. He straightened as the front door opened and a woman stepped into the sun. His eyes hungrily took in every detail as she flowed down the steps and across the lawn to the vehicle in the driveway. The burnished red-gold hair swept back in a simple braid held gray at the temples that had not been there previously and the face he remembered so well bore more lines. The tired blue eyes that matched his own held more knowledge and sorrow than he wished. The simple flower print cotton dress reached her knees and rippled around her with the day's light breeze.  
  
She called out to a neighbor working in a yard nearby and waved. A shiver ran down his spine as he caught snatches of her beloved voice. Her car pulled away slowly and he eased his own onto the street and followed.  
  
The day passed too quickly as he shadowed her about her day's business. A trip to the farmer's market to wander among the rows of produce and crafts. A stop to pick up a lunch at a deli to be eaten in the park, watching enviously as children laughed and played and ran to their mothers with carefully picked bouquets of dandelions. Finally, one last stop at the florists as the sun passed its zenith and began its trek towards night.  
  
His heart fluttered painfully as she drove past the street leading to her home and continued along the winding road. He followed. There was no choice really. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel until the knuckles whitened, his mind whispering denials to him. Not there. Please not there. But she drove on, along the winding road, under the shade of the great trees, and finally through the great metal archway. He parked down the road from her and watched silently as she left her car and began her journey over the grass, weaving her way past stone guardians.  
  
He pulled a well-worn baseball cap from the glovebox and smashed it over his hair. He stepped from his own car and slipped a pair of dark sunglasses over his eyes and followed the woman's retreating figure. She finally slowed to a stop and stood silently before a stone headstone. One he knew well for it bore his family's name engraved upon it.  
  
She knelt before it and gazed soundless at several of the stone markers laid precisely before it before leaning forward and lovingly brushing dirt from two of them. He paused several rows away and bent to examine a headstone before him, pretending great interest. He stole glances toward her. Not that she noticed anything except the graves she tenderly cared for. He knew she spoke for he could see her mouth moving as she carefully pulled grass and weeds from around the stone but the breeze carried no snippets of her words.  
  
Her face mirrored her pain and he knew the source. She spoke so softly to two of her three children who lay before her on this sacred day. He longed to go to her and tell her not to be sad but he knew he could not. Few knew that one of those graves was empty and so it must stay. It was far safer for her to believe he had perished in Raccoon City with the rest that fateful day. For knowing otherwise would put her in danger and he could not bring himself to place her in peril.  
  
Her hands stilled their idle work and she sat back, her head bowed over her clasped hands as though in prayer. Tears stung his eyes when she lifted her eyes skyward and he saw the crystal tears streaking unchecked down her cheeks. He pressed his palms flat against the stone before him and repeated over and over that he could not go to her as the sounds of her soft sobbing reached his ears. He listened to her anguish silently, unable to still the trembling that shook his body or halt the hot, salty tears that fell from his own eyes.  
  
Her weeping slowly dwindled to soft hiccups and finally to silence. She sat motionless in the grass, watching the sun dip lower on the horizon and the shadows lengthen and play across the grounds. Eventually she stood and brushed herself clean of grass and soil, wiping the remaining tears from her eyes, and turned to go. He kept his head lowered as she passed him and stood only when he heard her car pull away.  
  
He knelt before the same graves as she and ran fingers lightly over the stone holding his sister's name, ignoring its companion that held his own. He kissed the tips of his fingers and pressed them to the cool stone and stood, leaving as the sun slipped under the horizon.  
  
He returned to the street and house he knew so well several hours later. There were two cars in the driveway once again. He slipped from his car and shut the door as softly as possible. It was a tense walk up the sidewalk to the door, every nerve and sense alert, every dog barking in the distance causing him to jump. He finally gained his destination and hesitated only a moment before laying his burden on the steps and, feeling terribly childish, rang the doorbell and pelted back to his vehicle before the door opened.  
  
He watched nervously as the door opened and the woman stepped into the porch light's warm glow. He held his breath as she looked up and down the street in confusion and expelled it in a rush when she looked down. He saw her blink several times before leaning down to pick up the bright bouquet of purple, red, and yellow tulips at her feet. The enclosed card fluttered from the spray and she bent to sweep it up. She cradled the flowers in the crook of her arm and opened the simple, unsigned card.  
  
Her hand flew to her mouth, smothering a choked sob. Her eyes glistened with more threatening tears and flew up and down the street, seemingly lingering overly long on his car. He slouched in the seat a little farther, hiding his face in shadow. She held the card in a trembling hand and pressed it tight to her breast. A shaky smile graced her lips and her blue eyes seemed to brighten. She turned and entered the house without a backward glance.  
  
He felt a warm tear of his own trickle down his cheek and smiled. "Happy Mother's Day."  
  
  
  
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